None is Quiet on the Western Front
by Ronin201
Summary: The story of an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot and his compatriots as they fight off the Belkan invasion of Eastern Osea during the 1995 war. Apart from the job of delivering ordnance behind enemy lines and under fire, he must deal with personal and professional issues that hang over his head. The respective creators of the material within retain their respective rights.
1. Chp 1: The Foley Mudhens

_Chp. 1: The Foley Mudhens_

_March 23, 1995_

_McNealy AFB Bombing Range_

Staff Sergeant K.C. Smith, a member of the Osean Air Force's Strike Warfare Center, lay quietly atop the grassy knoll, the one mph breeze occasionally batting around the straw affixed to his woodland-pattern boonie hat. It was his turn to help guide in the next group pair of flyboys while his two other FAC compatriots laid half-asleep towards the foot of the slope, waiting their turn for the next run on the already heavily punished clusters of derelict Pattons, Sgt. Yorks and Chaparrals that were supposed to represent the "enemy" (the cranky Eruseans or the even still the Yukes they'd just begun to head towards friendlier terms with).

Smith chose a line of M48 Pattons and made sure the tripod-mounted laser designator he had was pointed at the middle one, just in case.

"Long Sword 2-2, this is Voodoo 3, I have a VID on enemy armor. I count four from my position." He radioed.

Far above and miles away, 1Lt. Matthew Hall listened to the FAC's description as he guided his F-15E Strike Eagle on a steady path. In the back, his WSO 2Lt. Henry Collins was waiting for the go to put the machine's APG-70 radar into air-to-ground mode for their runs. They had two GBU-12s hanging under the wing pylons, as well as four Mk.83 1000-lbs bombs and 300 rounds in their M61A1 cannon.

"Roger that Voodoo 3, standing by." Collins spoke up.

The Strike Eagle was originally intended as an interdictor, not a close-support craft like the A-10 or Su-25, but the Osean Air Force was always looking for ways to prove to the taxpayers and bureaucrats their expensive toys were worth the dollar. That train of thought was what had led to the day's exercise for the "Paladins" of the 245th TFS: close air support.

"Longsword, what've you got?" their eyes on the ground asked.

"Two Paveways, four Mk. 83, and 300 rounds for each bird, take your pick." Matt's friend smiled under his oxygen mask.

"Roger, standby…" the Staff Sergeant replied.

"Standby for what? His IR strobe?" the pilot of Longsword 2-2 asked, thinking the FAC would've activated that long before.

"Okay Longsword, make your approaches north to south. Target will be four M48 Pattons near the woodland road, coordinates are as follows…" the foot soldier informed.

Collins punched in the coordinates and consulted his map on one of the F-15's rear Multi-Purpose Color Displays (MPCD). Matt gave him a glance through one of the rearview mirrors.

"We good?" the brunette Lieutenant asked.

"Yep, let's give em a show." Genesis confirmed.

"Roger that, Longsword 2-3, this is Longsword 2-2. Weapons armed, rolling in hot." The front-seater radioed.

"Okay Prince, I'll follow you in." Longsword 2-3's pilot, 2nd Johnathan Hickman radioed. The brunette looked to his left and nodded.

"Negative Rat Pack, break off and get up higher so you can spot for me. You get the second pass." He replied. The Bana City native thought he heard a gripe from his friend, but John agreed. Matt gave him the signal to spilt off

"Voodoo 3, Long sword 2-2, rolling in hot." Henry said as his friend smoothly guided the Mud Hen to the left and began to dive.

Matt would be the one to let off the unguided Mk 83s, being given the best visibility. Meanwhile his taller friend would be ready with the GBUs if they needed to make a third pass (after John and his WSO, Captain Luther Barry). The young man of 29 adjusted the throttles to give himself a little speed in the dive. He selected the four green bombs as Henry confirmed the position of the FAC and the tanks on his AN/AAQ-14 targeting pod's Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR). The pilot adjusted accordingly and pressed his big dark gray jet into the light-green valley, passing below 8000 feet.

The shapes crept down his Heads-Up Display (HUD) towards the circle on the electronic bombsight. The altimeter continued to drop, 7700 feet. As with most any training exercise the RWR system remained quiet. Matt's finger hung just above the release button until the rear M48 was just above the circle on the "lollipop".

"Longsword 2-2, pickle." He called calmly as he depressed the control several times. A number of soft "thunks" registered in the crew's senses as the weapons went free.

"Longsword 2-2, off target." Matt confirmed as he pulled back the stick and went into afterburner for a brief second.

Henry was turned around in his seat, the FLIR unable to slew to the angle to watch the show. Matt gave him a little help and banked right, going into military power as they climbed back up to 15,000 feet. A glance to the Earth below revealed four rising trails of smoke from the impacts.

"Good hits." K.C. Smith hooted.

Matt spotted Longsword 2-3 circling the target as he leveled out to take up the overwatch, heading back to make his own run.

"Okay Longsword 2-3, go for it." The brunette smiled.

"You said the magic words Prince." Johnathan smiled, as happy as he usually was to get some action (even if it was all just practice).

The other F-15 crew mirrored their section lead's run, delivering four more green-colored bombs to the "enemy" column.

"Okay Longsword, that'll do it. I can confirm eight good hits. You're cleared back to the barn." Their friend on the ground radioed.

Matt checked his tanks as he waited for John to rejoin on his wing. He wished he could just fly all the way back home from here, but the mission had intended to be local, and thus he was to head west and stop at McNealy for a while before returning back to the valleys, tall hills and wide rivers of Eastern Osea. He saw the other F-15E slide into position and nodded.

"Roger that Voodoo, Longsword is egressing out of the area."…

As the Strike Eagle finally fell silent, Matt pried slid the helmet off his sweaty head. The rest of the ground crew assigned to Eagle 91-0611 came forward to tend to their machine and bring forward a pair of boarding ladders. Staff Sergeant Justin Zablinski, the crew chief for the two officers, approached Matt as his black boots hit the tarmac.

"Are there any immediate problems with the bird, Sir? Don't want to delay things since we're leaving this afternoon." He asked. The First Lieutenant looked back at the multirole fighter, then towards the dirty-blonde.

"Nothing that'll keep her grounded. Engines worked fine and the controls weren't sluggish in the slightest." He reported, recalling the most immediate details of the training hop.

"Any problems in your seat?" the enlisted man went on, glancing at his clipboard.

"Nothing. ECM panel and RWR were quiet without any simulated threats, the 83s came off smoothly, and the 70 wasn't giving me any attitude like it was back at Foley." His superior outlined. The man in woodland BDUs nodded and looked at the other ground crew as they worked to disarm the two Paveways to detach them and remove the LATIRN pods.

With an "Understood sir", the two parted ways and "Prince" Hall rejoined with his WSO.

"Johnny almost got too trigger-happy again." The one with chestnut-colored hair mumbled.

"At least it's better than when he first joined the unit. I swear if he hadn't gotten a handle on it as fast as he did after almost augering into the dirt while going through The Gulch, the Colonel would've had his wings stripped off the second he'd found out."

The two approached the subject of conversation: the lanky, 5'11, oil-colored pompadour-wearing 2nd Lieutenant known as "Ratpack". Henry immediately brought up the issue.

"Hey man, we went over how we were gonna do things in the briefing." He pointed out with a bit of a frown.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I'm a combat pilot and this is our last day down here. Can you blame me?" The Strike Eagle pilot retorted.

"He's right Hickman, we were supposed to cover Hall and Collins when they made their pass." Captain "Straw" Barry added. The front-seater of Longsword 2-3 looked a bit offended his own Weapon Systems Officer would side against him.

"Oy, enough. Ratpack, next time unless I'm getting jumped by an aggressor or something, just go with the briefing man. I don't want Glory Hound getting his panties in a bunch because you got trigger-happy." Matt said to his friend.

"Understood, Prince." He nodded.

The four walked towards the building the Paladins had been given for the temporary stay down here. Inside they were greeted by overly-cooled air, as was the norm in many Air Force buildings. Their first stop was to store their G-suits, helmets, oxygen masks and sidearms. For the most part their equipment would be kept ready for the long flight back home this afternoon.

"So have they decided who's going to the next Red Flag in September?" Henry spoke up as he handed over his Berretta M9.

"Announcement's supposed to be next month." Luther answered.

Through the door left they filed into a small room with seats and a chalk board for the debrief of both the last sorties of the exercise and a debrief of things as a whole. Inside was a pair of familiar faces.

"Welcome back." The Yuktobanian-accented voice of 1Lt. Valentina "Baroness" Alexitov said.

"Heya Baroness, how was your run?" Matt replied. The woman brushed away some of her chocolate-colored hair and grinned.

"Tell me Matt, have you ever dropped twelve Mk.82s in one run? It's probably as good as sex." She asked with a serious tone.

"Sounds like a helluva time." her squadron mate laughed.

That's what he and most of the 245th liked about the short, athletic woman: she acted so frank sometimes and was capable of doing it in complete seriousness. The pilots were joined by Operations Officer Major Robert Louis following the time needed to collect certain info about the flight. After the textbook execution of standard OAF courtesies, the mustached officer got to the debrief.

"Well, from what I understand it was another straightforward flight for both two-ships?" He asked.

"Yes sir, we followed the steps from the briefing as planned and made our runs one at a time under the guidance of out assigned FACs." Matt spoke up. The older man nodded.

"And from what I've heard from the ground crews the jets were in good shape with only a few minor problems?"

"Yes sir, our FLIR pod was a little buggy, but it never interfered with the bomb drop or completely failed us. We used the Mk.82s." Captain Andre Ferguson, Osean Marine Corps, answered. "Louie-Louie" Louis looked at the Weapons Officer of the squadron.

"How bad?"

"Picture was a little fuzzy, but I mentioned it to my chief in case it's the start of a worse problem."

"Good, talk to Major Constantine if it continues to give you or your ground crew trouble."

The rest of the briefing was condensed for purposes of the exercise's debrief. They'd been preparing a squadron's worth of men and machine for the rather short transit back to Foley AFB, but even a three-hour transit took much preparation, especially since transport aircraft were needed to move the enlisted personnel. The group exchanged more information about their respective training flights, being joined by more of the 24 total aircrew with the exception of the Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and the now-gone Operations Officer. Matt was watching the front when "Louie-Louie" snapped to attention.

"Room, atten-shun!" he barked.

All the pilots stood up in the appropriate manner and waited for the word from Colonel Dean Mackey. The most senior pilot in the Paladins gave them all a smile and an "as you were" before turning to face them from the front of the room.

"Well everyone, as we all know today ends our month-long stint at OASWC. I'd like to be the first to congratulate you all for your dedication in expanding and perfecting our capabilities in the F-15E Strike Eagle. Our reports have been satisfactory, as expected, in the areas of interdiction and low-level attack, with promising marks being made in the role of Close Air Support." He began, his long, sunken face contorting with a smile.

"All things considered I don't think we have much to talk over. You've made this old Phantom Phyler proud, and I'd say a cake and some beers are well-earned upon our arrival at Foley." The senior man went on. a few chuckles went through the room.

"Now, getting to that, we'll be taking off around 1500 today. The McNealy ground crews will take care of us so our own crews can be on the ground at home to receive our jets. We'll be cruising at 21,000 feet to give the commercial guys some breathing room, especially since the lack of VHF makes it harder to communicate with civvies. No hot-dogging as you all know, wastes fuel and we don't want a mid-air collision. We'll be taking off in twos in ten-minute intervals to keep traffic unjammed."

"Furthermore, this morning I received words that tensions have spiked a little to the East concerning the Belkan negotiations with Ustio to gain access to some of its resources. Our alert status has been raised to DEFCON 4. The Belkans have made some troop movements, I'm told, but there is nothing to indicate war. The higher-ups simply want us to be a little more vigilant." He added, addressing the subject that had him a briefing for most of his workday. Major Luke McDale, the second in command of the Strike Eagle unit, raised a hand.

"What does this mean for us sir? Will we need to start whipping up a plan for an ORE?" He asked.

"The need for an Operational Readiness Plan isn't a major concern, but we may need one soon…" he said. The man's eyes fell upon Louis and the Intel officer: Major Jeanette Dillinger.

"…So I'd keep that in mind."

He looked back up at the rest of the aviators and grinned to try and ease the rather ominous announcement. Matt shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair. He'd never given actual combat much thought…

"As for our flight home, we'll have the standard load out. One centerline, travel pods on the side. We'll also carry two Sidewinders, two AMRAAMs and a half-load of 20mm in case instead of a single Winder and a half gun load. This is in accordance with regulations for increased readiness." He added, winding down the briefing.

"Again, I'd like to congratulate you all on what we've done here. Report back at your scheduled time with your things for the flight briefing on weather and other details." The man with graying hair said before closing the meeting with the usual formalities…

Matt and Henry walked out into the open air, helmet bags in one hand and gear affixed to their frames. They also wore rather ubiquitous headgear, which they removed as they closed in on the jets: bush caps. A tradition taken from the 245th's days flying F-105D Thunderchiefs, the piece of headgear was not widely used in the Osean Air Force anymore, but to the Paladins it was still something to be carried by its members.

"So, what's the party for?" Henry asked as he and his pilot walked towards their Eagle.

"My brother, Gerald. He just got a position as a heart surgeon in November City, and of course that's just about given my mother a heart attack of joy." The brunette replied as he removed his hat.

"Well, the finger foods should be pretty nice." The 2nd Lieutenant reasoned.

"Yeah, and hopefully the booze gets me stone-drunk." Matthew Hall added.

There was a reason he was called "Prince" Hall and his Eagle had been named "The Prince's Stallion" (complete with a fierce-looking white horse on the left side of its nose). The Hall family was a bloodline of prestige and wealth. Almost everyone was a lawyer, a professor, a medical professional, even regional senators and governors with money to spare. Matt was an exception, one of the youngest Halls but unlike his brother, he'd chosen a career path that carried what he felt was a bit more adventure and dignity. The Osean Air Force gave him satisfaction to both, but made him a black sheep among the others of his household.

The two men caught up to Valentina and Andre. The dark-skinned Marine Corps exchange WSO noticed them first.

"Afternoon compadres." He said.

"Heya Moose." Matt replied with a smile. The Yuktobanian-Osean and the "rich boy" exchanged nods of greeting.

"So what's your take on this Belka situation?" He added.

"The BAF is a force to be reckoned with, but I don't know how well they can keep that up in the long run. The Economic Crisis but them through the ringer, and I can't say if they aren't fully recovered yet." The female of the group mused.

"We're not that far from them at Foley either; 80 miles to the west." Henry chimed in.

"I say we worry about getting back to Foley first." The brown-haired Valentina reminded her squadmates.

"Alright, don't fall behind." Her fellow pilot winked as he pulled his HGU-55 and started towards his jet.

"You'll have lead, so don't YOU fall behind." She shot back.

The crew of Eagle 91-0611 played a game of divide and conquer, each aviator taking one side of their jet to personally inspect. Matt looked at the AIM-120 hung on the outer wing pylons, a newer B model as the smaller fins told him. closer to the fuselage was a single AIM-9M Sidewinder. Matt felt a little uneasy, knowing the things were live, but mostly because it meant the higher ups were uncomfortable enough about Belka to start reaching for the sword.

After inspecting the weapons and the travel pod that contained his personal items, He climbed atop the big jet and looked over its top with a small grin. The McDonnell Douglas F-15E Strike Eagle was a pudgier and more sinister-looking machine compared to its fighter brethren, the F-15C. But it was a helluva machine in Matt's eyes, especially when you had it down on the deck, weaving through the terrain around the Osean side of the Great Lakes. Sure there were aircraft that were more suited for a dogfight, but not every pilot who signed on wanted that.

The young man finished his half of the inspection as his friend was in the rear seat, checking the systems lights at his station as well as maps for the flight. The pilot clambered down from the machine and approached the Crew Chief, a olive-skinned lad who didn't look a day over 21.

"Is she ready?" he asked. The man gave him an energetic smile.

"Yes sir, she should be good all the way home. Hope you had a nice stay here!" he replied.

"Thanks for the tune-up, Sarge." Collins said to the man. Their compatriot nodded as Matt went up the boarding ladder and took his place.

The ground crew's last job before scattering was to make sure the two Air Force officers were strapped in. Once everything was done they backed off for the most part and the front-seater brought his beast to life as he secured his oxygen mask. The cockpit remained open while the "remove before flight" flags were removed, after which Matt lowered the object and secured it. Then the pilot gave a quick run-through on the control surfaces, moving them under the Chief's watch to ensure they were okay. After another minute of preflight checks, Matt indicated everything was okay and was handed over to a plane director. The man urged him forward with two hands, the dark-gray fighter rolling towards him like an obedient animal after adjusting its flaps and releasing its break.

With a salute the dire tor sent him to the left. Prince returned it and glanced back as Longsword 2-4 was rolling too. He adjusted the piece of gray over his mouth and checked in with the tower.

"McNealy Tower, Longsword 2-2 and 2-4 requesting taxi clearance to Runway 1-B arming pit." He spoke up. There was a few seconds pause before the radio crackled a little.

"Longsword 2-2, Longsword 2-4, McNealy Tower. Cleared to runway 1-B arming pit." A voice replied.

The two Osean aircraft made a stop at a slab of tarmac near the entrance to the runway, where their weapons, clear of anything volatile, were readied so they could be armed in the air. After that they were given passage to the end of the runway.

"McNealy Tower, Longsword 2-2 and 2-4, requesting conditions." Matt said as he adjusted himself in the ejection seat. A more prolonged pause.

"Longsword 2-2, 2-4, winds are south-southwest at two mph, scattered clouds at 20,000 feet. No weather systems in the immediate area."

The brunette grunted and looked at Baroness. The pilot of Eagle 90-0588, hidden behind her mask and visor, gave him a thumbs up. He returned it and looked forward.

"Longsword 2-2 and 2-4 requesting departure on Runway 1-B, McNealy Tower." Matt said.

"Longsword 2-2, Longsword 2-4. Cleared for takeoff, runway 1-B." the control tower radioed.

At the end of the go-ahead, the lead pilot of the two gave his throttles a shove and got the interdictor rolling down the black path. The screech of the two Pratt & Whitney F100s increased as he notched up his speed. By the time he was nearing takeoff speed, the Strike Eagle was really moving, his wingman (or wingowman in this case) right behind him. He glanced at the speed on his HUD as it slid past 155 mph. With a grin he pulled back the stick and brought the machine into the air. The machine roared like a mythical creature and climbed into the afternoon sky, bound for its home.


	2. Chp 2: The Black Sheep

_Chp. 2: The Black Sheep_

_March 24, 1995_

_Foley AFB, Osea_

Foley Air Force Base, named after Osean Air Force General Calvin D. Foley, was one of Osea's "eighty-eighty" bases. It was placed eighty miles from the Eastern Osean border, and eighty miles from other Osean air bases (mostly Air Force or Army). These were the country's eastern line of defense, the latest incarnations of the border posts and forts that'd romanticized the days of the cavalry and cowboys. Foley itself lay to the west of the Great Lakes region, near the area's mountains and floodplains. Foley, and the few large towns that surrounded it, were essentially in what was frontier country.

Foley was a standard OAF base: two runways, housing for its inhabitants, a BX and other essential parts of a military installation. It was distinguished as being the other major base for F-15E Strike Eagles (alongside McNealy), and it was here that the 245th and the other three flying squadrons that made up the 11th Tactical Fighter Wing nested with their supporting forces in operational and logistics work.

As the sun was rising well into the sky over the facility, Matt guided his dark green 1993 Jeep Wrangler 4X4 through the base's main gate. He shot a glance to the right at the two gate guards: an F-105D Thunderchief and an F-4E Phantom. The young man gave them a smile and turned left towards the freeway, turning the volume up on his car's tape-player a little. Midnight Heat's "1989" came from the speakers with a bit more oomph as the New Wave song reached its climax of electronic noise. It got a smile out of Matt.

The tune was the kind of synthesizer and drum-heavy music he'd danced to as a college boy, going to downtown Bana to hit up clubs with friends and occasional dates. He never drank and as Air Force ROTC (the reason he didn't drink) had taken more and more prevalence in his life, but they'd been some of the wildest times of his youths. Flashing lights…shiny dance floors, laughter and an atmosphere that let you know everyone was letting loose just a little. It sunk him into Nostalgia Land briefly, but he was snapped out of that by a stoplight.

Truth be told, Matt was only making the hour-long drive to this party in the Lake Harwood area because he couldn't give his parents a legitimate excuse to stay on the base and just send Gerald a card. He didn't hate his oldest sibling, he loved the guy and his two sisters to death. It was just the fact that he was once again going to be dragged into the world of pomp and snobbery the Air Force relived him of. His parents had wanted him to be a man of law or medicine, not a fighter pilot. His choice to join Air Force ROTC at Bana City University instead of those had not gone over well with his parents, more his mother.

The freeway running to the southeast wove through the mountains like a snake as traffic traveled along it. The pilot enjoyed the view as the sun penetrated the thickening clouds, making visible stark beams of light, almost like the ones in pictures of Jesus of events of the Bible. Traffic bunched up twice, quietly irking the young man as he tried to arrive at his motel early. But he couldn't complain at the sights of the hills that towered above both sides of the road.

His mother and father's vacation home in the lakeside settlement of Broadmont sat at the lower part of a hill, elevated just high enough above the trees to see the body of water itself. His temporary lodging was in the actual town, which was a quaint little vacation spot like the location of _Rambo: First Blood_ (minus a dickhead sheriff and rampaging ex-Green Beret). He stopped his Jeep before the front office and walked in, straightening the front of his dark-gray t-shirt.

"One room for Matthew Hall." He told the clerk. The middle-aged man nodded and went below the desk. The customer looked around the space and noted a TV. It was showing a man giving the weather. There was a storm system that was due in three days from the east. It was probably going to toy with flight operations if there was to be lightning, but rain didn't affect most modern jets in the air.

"Here you are sir, and your meal ticket for tomorrow's breakfast bar." The owner of the inn said. Matt took it, paid with his debit card, and left the lobby to reposition his car in front of room 115.

Matt Hall took his things inside and set them on the bed he wouldn't use. He went back outside and retrieved his Class A's, still wrapped in their dry cleaner's plastic. He freed the garments from the cover and laid out the shirt and coat, taking a bag full of rank and ribbons. The tedious process of pinning each little part to the uniform took up most of his time before he would hail a cab to transport him (since he planned to drink tonight). By the time he was showered, shaved the stubble from his face, and changed he had to call the cab immediately or risk getting an earful for being late.

"So where to, solider?" an Emmerian-accented driver asked.

"This address." The pilot replied, handing him a piece of paper.

The trip was quiet, uneventful. The brunette in the back of the Ford cab didn't say much to his driver, except for thanking him when he handed over his fare. The yellow vehicle pulled out of the driveway and Matt adjusted the peaked cap atop his head and walked purposefully towards the short flight of steps preceding the doors. He knocked on the door and straightened up as the door opened and he was greeted by a familiar face.

"Good evening, Wadsworth." He beamed at one of the family's servants.

"Good evening sir, it's wonderful to see you've managed to arrive for tonight's festivities." A man with long black sideburns and a neat moustache said as he extended a hand. Matt gave him a smirk.

"Ah, no need for the formalities, old friend." He said as he gave the guy a brotherly hug. They exchanged smiles and Matt took off his hat as he walked in, keeping it at his side.

Already several people were there, milling about with various kinds of booze and small foods at their disposal. He gave polite nods and stopped occasionally to shake a hand or receive a hug. Eventually he navigated to the bar and immediately went for a beer, nothing to strong just yet. He drifted towards the open doors to the patio and enjoyed the view, taking a swig from his brown bottle every now and then. Suddenly, Matt felt a pair of arms seize him and hold him. He looked over his shoulder to see the blonde hair and taut face of the oldest Hall child.

"Gerald!" the brunette exclaimed.

"How are yah, Matty?" Gerald Hall smiled as he let his brother go from the bear hug.

"A lean, mean, flying machine." his younger sibling beamed. The doctor laughed and let him go.

"Glad you could make it." The man of the hour said.

"Ah come on Gerry, I'm not gonna pass this up. You're my brother after all." The officer said.

"Where are Annett and Harriet?" Matt asked.

"Around here somewhere, I've been so busy shaking hands and accepting thanks I haven't been able to say hello to everyone." The blonde replied.

The two caught up and reminisced a little until they were joined by their two younger sisters, the blonde Harriet and chestnut-haired Annett. The two pairs exchanged hugs and started talking.

"So how was your trip, Matty?" Annett asked.

"It was fine. Scenery was nice, and very different from Foley. Less woodland, more coastal. Plenty of palm trees too." The pilot said.

"Any handsome pilots to introduce either of us to?" Harriet chimed in.

"Well, if you want, I can always hook you up with my friend Ratpack." The brunette male teased. His youngest sister shook her head.

"Nickname or not, he doesn't sound very pleasant." She added.

"He isn't that bad, once you get past the ego." Her brother insisted lightheartedly.

"Doesn't every pilot have that?" Gerald pointed out as he lowered his glass.

"Ratpack's has a certain amount of exception to it." his younger sibling clarified.

Eventually they went back inside. Matt still had yet to come across his parents in the small crowd, and with his beer now finished he approached the bar for round two. He noted another patron and recognized him when he got closer to the short, stocky figure. Martin Hall, his dad's brother, turned around just in time to see the Lieutenant.

"Uncle Martin!" he exclaimed with a wide grin. The two exchanged a handshake.

"Hey Matty, it's been a while. The uniform looks good, and in-line with regs." The balding man pointed out.

It was his Uncle Martin that encouraged him to become not only an Air Force pilot, but one for the F-15E Strike Eagle. The man had spent half of his career as a test pilot, but the other half at the controls of the F-111 Aardvark. He'd even gotten some combat time during the 1985 Futuro Crisis. The stories he'd told Matt had further fueled the growing interest in pursuing a commission.

"So how's the life of a pilot treating you?" The retired vet, now a contractor in the construction business, asked.

"Good, I just returned to my home base from a stint at McNealy."

"Oh? What brought you there?"

"My squadron went through the Strike Warfare Center to practice interdiction and get some better practice at close air support. Apparently the A-10's and F-16's CAS abilities don't satisfy everyone, so now the Strike Eagle should be doing the same."

"The E doesn't do Close Air?"

"Not per say, like the Aardvark we mainly do interdiction. I'm surprised how easily we can do close air support once given a little practice and guidance."

Martin nodded and looked back towards his drank. The older man tossed back another gulp of it and let out a breath.

"So do they have you on alert with this Belka situation?" He asked. Matt shrugged.

"The XO suggested an ORE be made, but they don't have us ready to go in at a moment's notice. I probably wouldn't be here if there was any imminent threat."

His uncle nodded and looked back. He jerked his head and the young officer turned to see his mother and father nearby.

"I know you aren't always on the best of terms nowadays Matty, but they love you. Go make sure they know you're here." He told his nephew.

Matt nodded and left his now empty beer behind, navigating across the open space to the ageing couple. He slapped on a smile and waited for a brief moment as his mother took notice. Meredith Hall nearly squeezed the life out of her son and planted about a dozen kisses on each cheek.

"My goodness Matthew, you look as handsome as ever!" She beamed proudly.

"Now now Honey, don't embarrass the poor boy." Her husband, Julius, reminded her.

"It's good to see you both again." Their second-oldest son said.

"And the same to you, Matthew. How have you been?" His father said as they exchanged handshakes.

The younger man recapped what he'd told his uncle, making it simpler for the non-military folks and conveniently modifying the situation regarding Belka.

"Well, we can catch up in detail and talk later; it's almost time for dinner. Where are your siblings?" His dad asked.

Matt retrieved his two sisters and the guest of honor and they gathered in the vacation homes large dining table. That night they had salmon caught from the lake nearby, plus various veggies and fancy breads. Several servants passed out drinks. Matt decided to lay off in alcohol in exchange for a glass of caffeine-laced Dr. Pepper. Before they ate, his dad called the room to direct their attention to him for the toast.

"I would like to propose a toast, firstly and most importantly to my oldest son, Gerald." The host said with a firm grin. He looked over at his firstborn as a round of applause circled the table.

"Gerald, you've joined the ranks of the many Halls who have proudly served the world of medicine. You're journey has just begun, and I know you'll make all of us proud." He went on.

"I'll drink to that!" Matt agreed. A round of subtle laughter followed the remark, and the group of upper-class folk clinked their glasses together.

"So Matty, find any pretty girls to woo yet?" Gerry asked as he divvied up his piece of salmon.

"Not Yet. Foley, unlike Bana City or McNealy, lacks a large civilian population, and any kind of fraternization between enlisted and officer is forbidden. We have very few female pilots and WSOs in the wing as well." His brother replied.

"Stick with me, the parties I go to are attended by several refined ladies." The older one winked.

"Do they like the daring type like me?" Matt chuckled.

"You'd have to find that out yourself." DOCTOR Gerald Hall told him with a wink.

"In fact, you should visit me sometime and I'll take you to a party. When you're available that is." The older man added.

"I'll hold you on your word." The F-15 driver assured.

The rest of dinner was light conversation and jokes. Desert came in the form of Sapin-style caramel pudding with ice cream and fruit. Matt quietly returned to alcohol for a short time, though he controlled himself with his parents not asking him about his career choices. By nine P.M. that night the party was drawing to a close. The brunette OAF Lieutenant, only a little tipsy, said his goodbyes to his family. Gerald saw him outside to meet his taxi.

"Let's have breakfast tomorrow at one of the places in town, my treat. You haven't really told me much about your career in the Air Force, and I like to hear about it." Gerry said.

"Yeah, and maybe you can tell me about what your job as a doctor will have in store." His brother agreed.

They decided to meet at a small diner at 8 AM the following morning with a handshake and bid each other goodbye before Matt's ride took him back to his temporary lodging. The night had gone well, especially since it had been devoid of any disdain for his job (and the subsequent drinking to drown that out)…

"I can't believe you just stood there like that, Julius. I thought you didn't like him being a pilot just as much as I did."

Matt's father looked at his now robe-clad wife. She didn't seem too upset with what he'd apparently done, but that was because she didn't like to overplay her discomfort with something like this. It got a sigh from him.

"Dear, we've been over this before." He reminded her.

"Just because we have, doesn't make it okay." She countered.

This issue was nothing new. Meredith Hall, amidst all her wonderful traits, had always secretly wanted to ensure everything in her life was under her control. It'd been that cool sense of command that drew the businessman to her. But it had now begun to sour in recent years.

"Meredith, how many times have we come to this subject? Matthew is a grown man now, and we can't be bitter forever about his choices. We've been lucky that he hasn't seen any actual fighting. If everything goes well, he'll have a quiet career and maybe become a test pilot or astronaut eventually. Maybe even a military lawyer." The man with dirty blonde hair reasoned.

"But he won't, we already suggested the idea to him. He's enthralled with flying jets now, he has no interest in law, just like when he was in college." She protested.

"Love…" He sighed.

"Don't "Love" me, Julius, We can't just pretend this isn't bothering us. How you not be disappointed anymore when you of all people hated it the most?" She snapped.

Now the long-haired woman was dragging things out, and the alcohol that was still in Julius Hall's system had shortened his temper, especially now that she was nearly insulting one of his children. With a loud inhale he glared daggers at her.

"Yes dammit, I'm disappointed he didn't make it as a lawyer! I'm disappointed that he went with Aerospace Engineering and ROTC!" Julius Hall finally snapped. Silence befell the ginger-haired woman.

"The last thing I wanted for my son was to become a soldier, but you know what, Meredith? He became one, and that's that! I learned that I can change it, so why can't you, dammit?!"

The room became very quiet for a long minute. Matt's mother kept the tears from her eyes as she simply turned away and left the room, the door letting out a resounding bang. Her husband drew in a breath and stood up, sighing. Sometimes he wondered what the younger version of himself would do if he'd known this would be the end result after 32 years of marriage.


	3. Chp 3: Gunboat Diplomacy

_**A/N: Due to the lack of specified states/provinces in Osea, any ANG units in this piece will be referred to by the major city they are based closest too.**_

_Chp. 3: Gunboat Diplomacy_

_March 24, 1995_

_16000 ft. Above Sea Level_

_Northwest of the Osean city of Wesson_

"Pike 2, Pike 3 is leaving the pattern. Have fun with the graveyard shift, sir."

Major Curtis Linley keyed his mike button in the cockpit of his F-16 ADF (Air Defense Fighter) and gave the lead of the other two Wesson ANG Falcons a "roger that". He looked over at the other jet in two-ship, piloted by Captain Zachary Mann.

"Pike 2-2, you're straying a little to the left, close it up." He ordered.

"Roger Lead." His younger cohort replied.

Linley had been a pilot for some time. He'd done 8 years as an Air Force pilot, flying F-4s and T-38s. After that he'd gone to the Osean Air National Guard, joining the 472nd Tactical Fighter Squadron every two weekends out of the month to fly the older F-16As. Between these little bits of feeling like he was still a hotshot who tore up bars and ravished legions of women, he flew a Learjet for the Great Lakes Mining Company. His wingman, "Manly" Mann, was a Continental Express Airlines pilot who'd wanted to fly more than just 737s.

The pair ascended another 2000 feet before Mann got the order from his flight lead to pull off so they could form the racetrack pattern. The Major leveled out and kept his nose towards the border, radar in search mode and flipping up the Master Arm switch. As Pike 2-2 maneuvered to get into the pattern, Linley selected the four AIM-120s hanging on his fighter's wing pylons. For all the older equipment and lack of equipment (like NVGs or more modern aircraft) that the Guard had, the AMRAAMs were an exception to the rule, and a welcome one at that. Maybe the Osean military's logistics chain was straightening itself out…

"Lake Control, this is Pike 2-1, we're orbiting at Station 3, how copy?" He radioed.

"Roger that 2-1, Lake copies all." Their home at Great Lakes Airport replied.

The blonde ANG pilot checked his radar, getting a still-clear picture on the dark screen. He banked right and pulled his F-16 away from Belkan territory, adjusting the throttle back briefly to tighten his turn. Outside his canopy he could see Pike 2-2 starting on the "hot" leg of the track. They passed about a mile apart and then turned in the opposite directions. The turns were the fun part for the Major. He loved the feeling of Gs notching up and the mean shape the F-16 had when it did so. On his fifth run at Belka, the boys on the ground spoke up.

"Pike 2, we've got something that just popped up short of the border and is rapidly entering our airspace in your sector. Can you give us confirmation?" the radarman spoke up.

Cutis looked down again and sure enough, his radar screen showed a single blip. His RWR picked up the machine as well, and it gave the appropriate chirp.

"Roger that Lake, we've got one on scope. Bogey at 349, 70 miles out." He confirmed. After a second the orders came back.

"Okay, we're gonna need you to get a VID on him and provide an escort to the border."

On the lead pilot's command, the two ANG Falcons formed up again and turned to the northeast. They kept their radars in search mode so as not to provoke incident. The Major gave another signal and his junior spaced out the formation some. The contact began to turn it tail at 30 miles. A minute later it appeared on the HUD as the two ADFs slipped into AMRAAM range.

"Lake, Pike 2 has contact." Curtis updated.

As he heard the textbook "roger that", the "weekend warrior" as actively duty servicemen and women derisively called him, made out a shape in the moonlight. He looked over and told his wingman to split off and come back at the intruder from the left. As the other F-16 left the formation, the bogey was turning tail towards the border, but he was caught before he could get away. The Major closed in on the small burner. Bad move he thought.

"Lake, Pike 2 has intercepted bogey, stand by for VID." He radioed.

The man activated his ADF's floodlight to give him some clarification on the intruder: a Mirage F1CR, and a Belkan one at that. He felt his heart sink a little as he looked at the jet a hundred feet or so off his left wing.

"Lake, we've got a VID on a Belkan recon jet here. Orders?" He asked with a steely-cool voice. The response took a minute.

"Roger that Pike, just show him the door."

The two F-16s, with a little light-delivered Morse Code, had a sense of understanding with the BAF Mirage's pilot and headed back towards the border. The F1CR behaved itself as they sailed along. Okay, okay maybe they were just testing the Oseans, seeing how interested they were in the negotiations…

"Pike 2-1, I've got a new pair of hits on my radar." Lt. Mann spoke up. His senior looked over at the other aircraft as his own equipment chirped.

"Lake, we're being spiked here, what's going on?" Pike 2-1 asked as the ECM panel categorized the threat as airborne.

"Pike 2-1, it appears to be across the border. Do not engage unless fired upon." Their ground controller emphasized.

The blonde-haired officer begrudgingly accepted the order as he and his wingman began to jink. Their escortee descended and fled, though at this point they had bigger problems. Finally the beeping got frantic.

"Lake, we're being engaged here!" Lieutenant Mann roared. The airline pilot's lack of experience got to him, and he worked his F-16 for an AMRAAM shot.

"Pike 2-2, get the hell back here!" His superior officer ordered.

Just then the ECM's beep became constant, and the HUD told the Major they'd been engaged. He didn't have to do much to guess where the shots were coming from.

As he got multiple missiles gaining ground on him, the F-16 pilot deployed countermeasures to buy time. He was faced with the problem of a head-on shot from long range. Until the weapon got closer, his only hope was violent maneuvers to leave the threat's electronic vision. He'd never actually been shot at, but he found he couldn't be that surprised by this first time. Zach Mann was nearly pissing his pants though, as Curtis could gather from the radio.

"Calm down 2-2, you can dodge em." He assured under the strain of Gs.

"R-Roger! I'll try and get a shot when I can." His compatriot replied.

The missiles were really moving now, though. Pike 2-1's pilot could see small lights on the horizon. He braced himself and hauled the F-16 into a hard right. His ECM hadn't let up, and his body was taking some real punishment. Finally the first missile was nearly atop him, but Lady Luck gave him just a little respite. The first missed, but its speed alone threw around his head in his brain bucket. The second just barely, and its explosion riddled the F-16's tail with fragments. It left Major Curtis Linley vulnerable just long enough for the third AA-9. "Manly" Mann was dotted from the night sky a second or two later.

Far away across the border, the crews of the two BAF MiG-31B Foxhounds watched with satisfaction as their recon plane made a safe abort. On the flight lead's signal, they began a bank to the left to turn away from the border, confident they'd taken the right action…

Matt lay strew across the motel bed, mouth hung open as he snored quietly. When the room's phone rang he jolted up and nearly tumbled to the floor, but after another shrill tone he had a sense of direction.

"Hello?" He groaned.

"First Lieutenant Hall, this is the 245th TFS Watch Officer, you are hereby ordered to report back to your unit immediately." The voice of Captain Mitchell Clark said without pause.

"Sir?" Matt asked a little dazed.

"You're to report back NOW, Lieutenant, that's an order." The man repeated. Before Matt could ask what was going on the line went dead. An unimpressed Matt hung up and ran both hands down the side of his face. He straightened up and stretched before dragging his still groggy rear from bed. A shower got him a bit more on the perky side of things. The OAF officer checked out early and decided to leave Gerald a message later so he wouldn't wake his brother up early.

The first indication something wasn't right was the traffic he encountered on his way to Foley, namely the few lines of National Guard (or so he assumed) M923 "Bigfoot" trucks and HUMVEEs he passed. His Wrangler's engine hummed and growled as he coaxed it to reach Foley as soon as it could. The "Sky Cops" at the gate gave him a bit of a hard time, but after readying himself to grab the guard by the collar and tell the enlisted man that when he was done with him, Matt would make sure he would be lucky to be a mall cop, he was let inside the secured area.

The Strike Eagle pilot stopped by the Bachelor Officers' Quarters for his flight suit, first and foremost. Captain Mitchell was there to direct him to the squadron's building. Still the short-haired man gave him no information on what was happening. Another slightly frantic drive took 1Lt. Hall towards the base's runway. He found a space in the lot for the 245th's building and hurried inside to the briefing room. Valentina was in her usual spot of the third row.

"Hey Baroness." He said as he sat down.

"Good morning." She groaned, obviously unhappy with having to be deprived of sleep. She ran a hand up her face and through her tomboyish lochs of hair and blinked sleep from her green eyes.

"Coffee can be your friend." Her friend advised. She glared at him.

"You don't say?" she asked. He only grinned.

"So what's this all about?' he went on, changing the subject. Valentina wasn't shy about sharing her thoughts.

"It has training mission written all over it. They want us to show Belka we can hit em hard if they don't get off Ustio's back. Why else would they wake us up at this hour without so much as a word why?" She reasoned.

"You think? I saw some National Guard trucks on my way here."

"It's part of the exercise. It isn't enough to gear up one base; they gotta do it for a bunch of units. I bet they'll load our Eagles with the load for multirole missions and have us buzz the border." She grinned. Matt returned her expression.

"I've got no complaints about that." He admitted. His inner adrenaline addict was appeased too.

"You'd think it'd get to be that exciting, I bet they're just seeing how ready we can be." Henry piped up as he sat down in his seat.

"Aww, come on Marsh, don't be a buzzkill." The Yuktobanian-Osean objected.

"Hey, I'm just saying." He pointed out.

Before Matt could intervene or any other words could be said, McDale had the room at attention. "Bloodhound" Mackey strode onto the low stage of the 245th's primary briefing room. The podium at the center was flanked in the back by the Osea flag, the squadron's flag, and their mascot: a suit of antique knight's armor decorated in the unit's colors (black, gold and maroon). The senior man of the unit turned towards his standing subordinates and asked them to be seated.

'Good morning everyone, sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour, but contrary to our hopes the world still likes to move at night." He apologized with a wry grin. It got a ripple of guffaws from his fellow Paladins.

"Anyways it seems we've had a deeply disturbing turn in the situation regarding Belka…" He said, any humor leaving his face. The look also drained the same from the others as the room darkened and a projector bathed a white screen to the CO's right in dark blue light.

"Around 2100 hours last night, two separate incidents occurred." The Colonel announced. He looked at the map on the projection screen.

"The first was the shoot-down of two Air National Guard F-16s near the city of Wesson when they intercepted what was reported to be a BAF Mirage recon craft. A second, and similar, engagement occurred in the vicinity of Heierlark AFB, but the two F-15s involved downed the Mirage and managed to scare off what were determined to be a pair of MiG-31s." Mackey explained. The map disappeared and changed to a satellite image.

"Additionally, we have been informed that the Belkan Army is pushing four divisions to the area between Aulick Bay and the Great Lakes, as well another two near the Futuro Canal. His image shows one of the units in the latter, which are all but confirmed to be Panzergrenadiers and helicopter assault troops, most likely due to the terrain." He clarified.

Several areas were circled with small notes on the vehicles and positions within the photos, which from the words "ZSU" and "M113" indicated it was the Panzergrenadiers. Since most Osean soldiers, including him, had been tuned to fight the Yukes, it was weird to see the Belkan military, which possessed a mixed bag of equipment. But targets were still targets.

"As we speak, we're running through all the intel we have on the Belkans' military capabilities, as well as what we are receiving from newer sources. From this we should soon receive a proper list of targets and list of possible mission profiles. I can tell you we will most likely be engaging in the bombing of supply lines, attacking enemy forces, possibly even exercising our newly-acquired experience in CAS, and, as every fighter pilot craves, we may even find ourselves in the role of DCA." The Colonel made clear.

Now there was an interesting line, Matt thought. The F-15E was not as good in a dogfight as a MiG-29, F-15, or F-14, but it could hold its own under the right conditions and in the right hands. He, along with everyone else who flew the big, gray bird, had taken a course in air combat. Personally, it sounded like fun, but not as fun as low-level strike.

"For now, we have been ordered to prepare for a scramble. Until we get a better picture of things, we cannot tell you what you will be doing, so stay on the base at the BOQ or here. If you need to do things like make sure your insurance is good or have some alone time with your spiritual self, feel free to do so. You'll be notified of your assignment and told where to report. For now we are being elevated to security level Charlie. Keep your ID on you at all times and be prepared to answer questions about the identity of your unit, aircraft, and superiors." Colonel Mackey said. Before any questions could be brought up, he brought the room to attention

"Paladins, Go Deep!" He roared.

"HIT HARD!" The room cried back, completing the 245th's motto…

"Sweet mother of fuck!"

Johnny's expression was more of amazement than frustration. But it wasn't because he was very possibly going to see action and itch that trigger finger of his, it was the fact that he was going to see combat itself. The blonde sat down and looked up at his roommate as he took a seat too.

"You can say that again." Matthew agreed. They exchanged looks.

"So, Belka…" The brunette mused.

"You've heard the word, right? Their guys are the real deal, legendary. They steamrollered Recta, and supplied Estovakia with a nice amount of tech. I wonder if even we or the Yukes can take em."

"Their rep means nothing if they can't prove it in a fight."

"I'll take my chances."

Matt turned in his chair towards his desk and glanced at his bush cap. He then looked at a small row of books on the piece of furniture as well, and unintentionally tried to search for some kind of answer in the titles facing him. He tried to calculate how good the Belkans were. They'd downed those two ANG F-16s, but that could've very easily have been luck. Finally he sat up and looked back at his roommate.

"If they wanna come n' play, I say we give em a helluva greeting." He smirked with determination. Johnny did the same.

"So, you gonna try and bag a BAF bird or two?" the blonde asked.

"Let's not forget Johnny, we aren't at war, not yet." His friend said, standing up and walking towards the window.

Outside it was still dark as the last few hours of March 24th slid away. Because of the heightened state of alert, only vital sources of light remained on. Off in the distance Matt spotted the base tower, it position outlined by a handful of small lights. Other shapes were only visible from his second floor window by memory.

He really thought about how to react to this new situation. He couldn't feel fear, nit yet. There was no danger breathing down his neck, but he almost wanted it to be. He felt an initial impression of disappointment towards the idea things would calm. It was like a guy wanting to start a bar fight, but as soon as he found someone to rile up, he pulled out. But then again, the thought of death came. War and death went hand-in-hand; no example of the first was without the second. Worse, it was like a gamble: even probability couldn't give you a solid answer. A big part of his mom's hatred for this job was the risk it carried, and having to watch as her son was lowered into the ground if her fears turned out right.

Ratpack decided to return to his bed and sleep, while Matt returned to his desk and without thinking grabbed his OAF-issued bible. Matt wasn't a very religious man, but he decided it couldn't hurt to try and ease the prospect of potential death. He'd been raised in a Christian family, so he wasn't a stranger. His faith had waned in his high school and college years, where until ROTC had whipped him into shape he'd spent free time at clubs, sneaking drinks and feeling up pretty girls. That Matt was long gone, now just the stray dog of a rich family who would have nothing to really leave behind should he go down in flames. It'd been thoughts like that which lead him to slowly reconstruct his faith and embellish himself in his squadron's community.

He deprived himself of a bit more sleep to read the holy book to ease away any nibbling doubts about things. The brunette needed confidence to stay with him if he was gonna tear some crap up. In fact, he eventually reasoned it would be good to have no girl waiting for him, no children. They would only add to that doubt and worse, give his parents ammunition. For now, all he needed was his fellow Mudhen drivers to have their own noggins screwed on straight, especially Marshall's. The guy did have a wife, and a three year-old daughter, and Matt was sure he was going to be held accountable for his WSO's safety…

The briefings, which were given around midnight, essentially amounted to a waterfall of information being ingested all at once and in a condensed manner. They had been given bits of info since the crisis started months back, but now they needed deeper details, and more of them.

Colonel Mackey first gave the entire unit a full overview of the Belkan's Air Force and what they could do. The biggest threats would be the country's MiG-29s and Mirage 2000s, which would most likely be the country's primary defense. The MiG-31s that'd played a part in the night's incident's also carried weight, but only as long as they were far away. The higher ups had doubts as to a BAF offensive against Osea itself, but it was noted that Dinsmark's strategists favored small strikers like the Mirage 2000D and F-4E Phantoms to big, lumbering bombers like their small force of Tu-22s, Tu-95s, and homemade BM-335s. Matt was almost dizzied by the info if it hadn't been for the fact that part of the stint at the OASWC had included threat recognition and familiarization, but he was still pressed. They went onto the Belkan Army's forces near the border areas, vehicles which the F-15E would possibly prey on as well, like the Leopard 2A3. The biggest threat, however, was their ground-based guns and missiles, mainly mobile systems such as the SA-6 and ZSU-23-4.

After getting dumped on by Intel, the members of the squadron were split into three four-ship flights, each with a different role. Matt, along with Valentina and Captain Mitchell, were grouped with Major McDale for interdiction. Quietly, all three resented the assignment and envied those who would be on standby for DCA (mostly the ex-Phantom crews and those who'd shown promise in making the F-15E fight in the air) and those who would be on call to attack Belkan intruders on the ground.

Luke McDale, a rail-thin man with jet-black hair of 37 years, was called "Glory Hound" for a good reason, and almost every other pilot was sure he was trying to compensate for something (or some things).

"The uncertainty of things means there are no spares available, so I expect every pilot, Weapon Systems Officer, and their respective ground crew to ensure their aircraft is ready. We will not be going in with any liabilities on an important mission like this." McDale iterated as he explained the potential missions the four crews might fly.

"Our payload, regardless of the target, will consist of four AIM-9M Sidewinders for self-defense if out escorts, either F-15s, F-16s, or Marine F/A-18s, cannot assist us, as well as a full load of 20mm. Our primary weapons will be two GBU-15s a Mudhen, fitted with EO heads due to a small storm front rolling in from the east." He went on, consulting a board on his podium. Valentina raised a hand.

"What kind of targets can we expect? How many?" she asked.

"Our targets are not set in stone, so we have to be flexible, Lieutenant…" He replied, looking towards a map. He took a small, thin pole made of wood and rapped one tip against a spot on it.

"…but our targets could be any bridges along the border. There are several arrears that are dominated by the Osean river and canyons, so if we cut these, we can severely limit any Belkan forces that attempt to invade." McDale added. She jotted down notes as her friend Prince raised his hand.

"Sir, those GBU-15s are pretty heavy weapons…is it really necessary to carry a pair? What if we get jumped on our way to the target?" He asked. "Chip" McDale considered the question a moment.

"That is a remote possibility if our escort is in the area, but nonetheless I would encourage you to manage. If we don't do our job then we leave our country's borders open to intruders." He reminded them all.

Matt nodded and twirled his pen around with his fingers a few times. The Major turned back towards the map to further explain the terrain and the weather for the next few days, especially the storm, when the door behind them burst open. Major Ned Constantine appeared in the doorway, a steely look on his face.

"We just got word that the damned BAF just descended on Ustio!" He announced with displeasure.


	4. Chp 4: Namco Strike Fighter

_Chp. 4: Namco Strike Fighter_

_March 25, 1995_

_Foley AFB, Southeast Osea_

An orchestra of boots thumped and slapped against the tile floor as every able-bodied pilot and WSO of the OAF's 245th Tactical Fighter Squadron made haste towards the double-doors that led outside. In the low-light the young crews worked to finish up the 12 F-15s before they were needed. The Strike Eagles of Matt and his assigned flight, Longsword 2, were waiting nearest the path to the runway. He glanced over at his female compatriot, and then stopped her.

"Hey, Baroness." He said. The woman stopped and looked at him. He held out a hand.

"I'm counting on you." He said. They shook and exchanged grins.

"The same goes for me, best of luck to you, Prince." She drawled.

He exchanged the same gesture with her Marine backseater and went on his way towards 91-611. The aircrew's crew chief was waiting for them.

"They finally did it, didn't they sir?" He asked Henry. The lanky WSO's tone was blunt.

"They did, Chief. Is this thing ready to go?" He asked. His shorter and stockier pilot added to the confirmation with a simple nod.

"She is, sir. Both 15s checked out fine." Zablinski reported. Even so, the pilots still needed to inspect themselves.

Matt put his helmet bag and the HGU itself in his seat. He glanced at the stylized crown painted on the forehead of the piece, along with his call sign before lowering his feet back to the ground. Flashlight in hand, he turned around to give his plane a look-over.

The GBU-15s had been hung under the wings in lieu of 610-gallon tanks. The glide bomb was a weapon Matt had rarely dropped, only twice in weapons training. Marshall was more knowledgeable on the thing, and Prince was glad he would be the one who actually guided the thing while the pilot just dropped. Above them was a weapon he felt a much larger knowledge of: the AIM-9. They carried four of the AAMs, the inevitable LANTIRN pods, and an AN/AXQ-14 pod on the centerline to guide the GBU-15s.

Matt didn't doubt that his Strike Eagle would get him home. It was a tough bird and boasted some of the best electronics for its mission (which had been kept in the best shape by the NCOs scurrying about the place). If he encountered any BAF fighters, he could fight or simply "eat dirt" by dropping down to the ground, where his F-15's LANTIRN system would help him avoid crashing. The BAF fighters, which he knew lacked such a system, would be reluctant to follow, especially in the hills and mountains out here.

Even as he hauled himself back into his seat and accepted a pair of Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) in exchange for his helmet's visor, Matt noticed a disturbing quiet. He looked out at the erected batteries of MIM-104 Patriots placed at the far reaches of the base and in the grass spaces between runways. Had they just attacked Ustio and chickened out on Osea? Were those Belkan units at the border just sitting around with their thumbs up their rears? Even once the man was strapped in and ready to go, there was still no apparent order to scramble, at least for them. The F-15Es equipped for DCA were being put up as early as he'd ben inspecting his weapons. Finally, the radio came to life.

"Attention, Longsword 2, this is Foley Tower, you are ordered to scramble." A voice said with professional urgency.

"Roger that Tower, Longsword 2 copies all." McDale spoke up.

Matt and Henry's ground crew once again sprang into action to get the machine's engines started. Matt pulled down the NVGs and turned them on as the canopy secured itself over him. The darkness was bathed in a green that drowned out any other colors. Lights became bright blobs of white.

As the four F-15s taxied, other fighters from two of their sister squadrons, the 144th "Boomerangs" and 293rd "Mongooses", armed with identical loadouts, were being called up. The taxing process was expedited as much as safely possible to get the jets airborne. Matt had to admit; even now he still couldn't feel danger.

"Longsword 2, switch to Strike Freq for tasking." The control tower ordered once the flight was collected and out of the pattern. Matt reached down and switched frequencies as the four aircraft leveled out at 15,000 feet

"Go for Longsword 2 on Strike." Chip McDale radioed.

"Longsword 2, this is Gatekeeper, stay in orbit above Foley and standby for SITREP." The commanding voice of a controller aboard an E-3B Sentry of the 18th Airborne Air Control Squadron said. Matt looked his left shoulder over at Valentina, who gave him a shrug. The voice came back.

"About half an hour ago, the BAF and OAF clashed in several skirmishes along the border, and Belkan strike aircraft began making attacks on radar sites and Army garrisons near the border. Orders have come down for a preemptive strike to cut off what routes into Osea we can. You guys one of the flights armed with GBU-15s?"

"Roger that." Longsword 2-1's pilot said.

"Okay, we're giving you guys the Ceemire Bridge to cut. The bridge has two parts, each consisting of a two-lane highway. We believe the Belkans may try to push troops across it if they can secure it and the airspace around it, given they try to push into Osea. It's a big sucker so make your GBUs count. A flight of six F-15s, call sign "Yellow Jacket", will be providing top cover. If need be we'll see what else we can send your way, how copy?" the man aboard the modified 707 outlined.

"Longsword 2 copies all."

Henry did his WSO magic and looked to the front at Matt.

"Okay Longsword, listen up, we'll attack in twos on going from South to North. I'll go first, and 2-2 will cover me. 2-3, you'll go in first and 2-4 will watch you." The flight lead outlined speedily.

For once Matt was surprisingly glad not be under the moniker of Longsword 2-2.

"Which span goes to whom, sir?" He asked.

"Longsword 2-1 and 2-2 will take the northernmost span, 2-3 and 2-4 will take the other. Wait until me and 2-2 have delivered our ordnance, understand?"

"Longsword 2-3 copies all."

"Longsword 2-4 copies all."

Matt peered through his NVGs into the inky darkness. The four F-15Es were the only aircraft in immediate sight. There were no EF-111s of F-15Cs, just the quad of strikers. He looked at his radar and checked his RWR panel often, waiting for some sign of other aircraft, friendly or hostile. On order from Longsword 2-1, the four machines separated into two-ships four miles apart. Matt kept an eye on Valentina's Strike Eagle as they banked right in perfect formation towards the Osean-Belkan border. Matt selected the AIM-9s for the time being and set his radar's range to the maximum.

"Marshall, how are you holding up back there?" he asked over the Internal Comms System out of dislike for the silence.

"I'm still breathing, how about you, Prince?" the familiar voice replied.

"First combat hop, kinda wanting to get some action." The front-seater replied.

"I heard that." Henry agreed.

"Baroness, how about you?" the brunette added.

"I'm fine Prince.' She replied simply. Matt's gaze rotated in various directions until more chatter came onto the radio.

"Longsword 2, this is Yellow Jacket Lead, we're taking up position to your west. AWACS hasn't allowed us to press into Belkan air space yet, so we won't be able to spot any contacts out at long range, how copy?" the voice of an F-15C driver spoke up. That didn't sit well with Glory Hound McDale.

"AWACS, why isn't Yellow Jacket cleared to press into Belkan airspace?"

"We haven't gotten it from the higher ups, apparently they're all still asleep." The control replied dryly. It evoked a few snickers on the electronic waves.

"Alright, alright that's enough. Longsword 2-3, 2-4, break off and wait for my signal to start your run. Longsword 2-2, go high and cover me." The flight lead ordered.

Matt pulled the stick to the left and eased back the throttles. His F-15 dove from fifteen thousand to around eleven thousand feet, Longsword 2-4 still with him.

"Okay Marshall, how're our weapons systems doing?" Matt asked.

"Nothing bad on my end." The Lieutenant replied.

Prince switched one of his MPDs to a map and looked back out at the ground. He recognized the moonlit shimmer on the Gerunte River. Out front he saw Longsword 2-1 and 2-2 racing on ahead. McDale's Eagle made a bank towards the water, while the plane of Keller and his WSO, Louie-Louie, went on a straight course above the water. Under Matt's leadership, he and Valentina kept on their course so they'd pass the bridge, swing around and head south before hitting their targets, hopefully just after the other two made their runs

"Gatekeeper, what's our picture?" Matt asked in near unison with the leader of the F-15 CAP.

"Still clear, Longsword and Yellow Jacket."

"Roger that, Longsword 2-1 is at IP, going in hot!" the major bellowed…

Trooper Barry Hotcher, Wesson Regional Highway Patrol, sat in his 1994 Crown Victoria Police Interceptor just off the highway a little before Ceemire Bridge. He had his stop sticks deployed just short of his car, and a warning sign erected to tell people the bridge was closed, but of course there. One way or the other, he mused, looking at the other two sedans across the way. It was sad to think people would try to sneak past to watch the bridge get trashed, or something stupider, but the powers that be could not trust humanity tonight.

"Hotch, you hear that?" his radio chirped. The man tuned his ears and detected a low screech as he picked up the palm-sized receiver and hit the transmit button.

"Yeah Will, I hear it." He shot back.

"Sound like they're awful close, think we could see em?" the young gun of the team, Trooper Jake Kelly, asked.

"Hold your position, Kelly, we aren't here to spectate." Barry's partner, Frank Gullin, said before anyone else. Hotcher looked at the older man.

"Could we even see em from all the way back here?" He brought up. Gullin shrugged.

"All we're supposed to do is let them bomb the thing, all four sections of it." he reiterated.

The low screech became louder, echoing through the trees and off the surrounding hills. Barry adjusted his brown cap and listened, but heard no whoosh or whistles, like he thought bombs and missiles made. In fact, there was no waning until a reverberating explosion rocked his eardrums a tad. He instinctively looked towards the sound, but could see little more at this angle than a dull flash evaporating into the dark.

"Holy crap! Did you see that?!" Kelly yelled.

"Dammit Kelly, stay at your post!" Frank barked.

"Hey, I only heard one explosion! Weren't there supposed to be a bunch more?" Will called out…

"Uhm…Longsword 2-1, I'm not seeing a second hit on your run." Hangman reported. It evoked a painful silence.

"Repeat your last, 2-2?" Chip asked, a little irked.

"Your second GBU fell long of the target, Louie-Louie watched it on his FLIR pod. Other one hit, but your second bomb fell long." The captain repeated calmly.

Matt clamped down his lips to contain a laugh. McDale would already be fired up at his WSO about missing, no need to draw attention. He looked towards the bridge again and then at Henry through his mirrors. They exchanged nods as they waited for McDale to say something. But he only ordered Keller and Louis to drop their weapons. They waited still as he went in and hit the span McDale missed. The Major said little as he reported he was climbing up to keep a watch out for any threats.

"Longsword 2-1 here, 2-3 and 2-4, can you make a run soon?" He finally said in a flat tone.

"Yes sir, is any part of the bridge still intact?" Matt spoke up. Hangman answered that point.

"Still got a good part and several places where the hole is narrow enough to lay a bridge. Should be plenty to drop."

"Roger that. Longsword 2-3 and 2-4 are going in hot, we'll make one run each." Prince Hall declared.

"Roger that, make it quick." Glory Hound snapped. Matt looked at Baroness.

"2-4, circle around once I've dropped my GBUs and try and put yours on target soon as I do, how copy?" He said with a firm voice.

"Roger that 2-3, good luck."

Matt dove down and pulled into a steep right bank, bringing his nose around to heading 180 and 9000 feet. In the back, Marshall waited to slew the targeting pod towards the bridge. As he relaxed his knees from the turn, he spotted the beaten-up structure on the display and began to lock it for the bombs, deciding to go with direct mode on the. In the front, Matt's eyes swiveled to every corner of his green-tinted vision. He kept the F-15 in a moderate throttle setting, ready to hit the gas anytime if their Sentry came on the horn with bandits. After he reported hitting his IP, he made the call one last time as the seconds ticked by and Marshall relayed his progress.

"Picture still clear." The controller reported.

"Roger that. Marshall?" Matt asked.

"Hang on…hang on…she's locked! Drop em!" the man howled. Matt felt his blood rush as he pressed the stores release twice.

"Longsword 2-3, pickle, pickle." He said calmly.

The two GBUs fell away and guided towards the coordinates, freeing their mothership to pull away and go into military power. The made no sound whatsoever as they fell down from so far above terra firma. Inside the cockpit, Matt and Marshall watched the countdowns on their HUD and display, respectively. Cool sweat began to form in the pilot's hair as he waited. Three…two…one…

"Good hits, good hits!" Valentina reported, unable to hide the small bit of enthusiasm.

"No shit?!" Matt asked, looking over his shoulder.

"No shit!" His friend echoed.

The pilot guided his strike fighter to the left and strained for a view of Baroness and Moose as they made their runs. His machine felt much lighter compared to when it was weighed down with the bombs. As Valentina expended her weapons, things seemed to ratchet up with little hesitation at that point.

"Gatekeeper has an eye on bogeys. One group, count four. Heading 079, 120 miles at Angels 18." The AWACs updated.

"Roger that Gatekeeper, instructions?" Yellow Jacket lead boomed with vigor. Another pause.

"Yellow Jacket, you are authorized to engage if the bogeys fire or come within 30 miles of the border."

"Longsword 2-4, what's your status?" McDale spoke up.

"Standby, 2-1." Moose said. a second later the Yuktobanian-Osean pilot called "pickle" and let off her weapons. Matt swung to the west and looked out for the flashes. They came, and he relayed the good news to her.

"Okay 2-4, back on me, let's rejoin 2-1 and 2-2." Matt said.

"Roger that 2-3." Valentina radioed, guiding her F-15E into a climb. Matt leveled out and ambled north again as he tried to catch up with the other Strike Eagles when Gatekeeper's voice came on again.

"Second group of bogeys spotted, count 068, 90 miles at Angels 17."

"Roger that Gatekeeper, what about the first group?" Yellow Jacket Lead said with a little less enthusiasm.

"Still approaching on the same heading at the same Angels, greater speed. Looks like MiG-31s."

Matt noted that his RWR was alert now and he went to A/A mode, setting the APG-70 to Range While Scan. He looked back and saw Valentina sliding into position off his left wing. She threw up a peace sign and he nodded.

"Longsword 2-1, 2-3 and 2-4 are joining you now." He said.

"Roger that." McDale replied.

He spotted two shapes high above and gently yanked the Strike Eagle into a climb. The RWR's tone changed as the unfriendly radars that were present began to start directing their eyes at the Oseans. Matt gulped and gritted his teeth.

"I'm spiked here, Baroness?" He asked.

"Yeah, yeah they're tracking me too." She answered.

The beeping changed and became more aggressive, more frantic. McDale bellowed at their controller to let the escort leave its CAP tracks to their west and engage the bogeys, but it was becoming clearer to everyone that war wasn't official in effect yet. That or the folks in Oured were still desperately trying to employ the olive branch. Finally the RWR reached its apex of panic, and Matt's HUD changed to a blood-red tone as the buzz went steady.

"Longsword 2-3's been fired on, 2-4, break formation!" Matt called.

The two F-15s went in separate directions and Prince banked right, and then snapped up into a fast climb to get some room. Henry kept his eyes towards Belkan airspace, straining to see the enemy missiles. Soon enough he spotted a pair of dots at their four o' clock.

"Visual on two AAMs, four o' clock. Pump chaff." He said, keeping his voice calm and controlled.

Matt let off a burst of chaff as he rolled inverted and dove, spraying the strips of aluminum all over the sky. The tone kept up its audial assault and Matt stole a glance towards the incoming threats. He rolled again and tried to out-turn the weapons, get outside their vision and make them lose track, or if they were being guided by their aircraft, jink so violently he slipped out of lock.

The game continued as Matt slammed the throttle airborne and brought the nose of his Mudhen around to the sky left of the incoming.

"Marshall?" he asked under the strain of Gs.

"Keep it up; I think they're losing us." Henry replied.

He saw the dots were getting bigger, their plumes of fiery exhaust burning brightly through his NVGs. He saw no one else, though the radio was alive as the fighter-model Eagles were getting clearance to attack the incoming bandits. He heard that the second group of six was apparently a group of Mirages. The sentence tumbled to the back of his mind as Henry reported the weapons were still closing, though they were falling behind now. Matt dared a glance back as they passed and the RWR returned to tell him about the unfriendly radars. The missiles, a pair of AA-9s, seemed far too big to be an air-to-air missile, even bigger than the F-14's Phoenix from where he was. Yukes made some weird things…Yukes…Valentina! In all the excitement he'd nearly forgotten her.

"Baroness?" he radioed.

"I'm alive Prince, worry about yourself for once." She replied flatly. He realized how many time he'd uttered the line during this sortie.

"Heh heh, roger that." He corrected himself with.

"Yellow Jacket, group two is pushing into Osean airspace, group one is withdrawing. Go get em Yellow Jacket." Gatekeeper interrupted.

"Roger that. Longsword, try and withdraw West, we'll deal with the bandits."

"Where are they Gatekeeper? How far away?" Matt asked. His F-15's systems answered that for him.

Once again Matt went on the defensive as his APG-70 detected a pair of threats coming from the same general direction the missiles he'd just evaded. Out of the frying pan he thought as he reversed his turn.

"Marshall, talk to me here." He radioed.

"I think I've got two visuals, they should be coming into your view soon at your two o' clock high." The backseater relayed.

Matt looked out as he reversed again and saw the delta shape of a Mirage 2000C fighter-interceptor as it banked at him from above. His bigger and heavier F-15E was at a disadvantage, though pilot's pride wasn't about to let him play the role of helpless strike aircraft. He was flying an "F" fifteen, not a "B" or "A" fifteen. He selected his AIM-9s and heard their familiar tone.

"Yellow Jacket, where the hell are you guys?!" The pilot demanded nonetheless as he looked at the BAF fighter and started thinking in terms of air-to-air.

"Hang on, Longsword; we're getting a handle on things." A far calmer voice assured.

Henry was turned as far back as he could be, keeping an eye on the bandit as it worked to match Matt's maneuvers. The pilot was more than happy to display the edge in maneuverability he had, but Matt was already going into afterburner as he exited his turn. The Oseans climbed and began to pull into a loop at high speed. The Mirage naturally followed and Henry turned around again.

"Longsword 2-4, I'm engaged defensive, can you assist?" Matt spoke up as he pulled back on the stick more.

"Roger that 2-3, I'm trying for a shot. Standby!" Valentina assured.

Matt looked around as he reached the top of the loop and spotted another F-15E bearing up at the two fighters a few miles away. A light went off under its left wing and he heard a familiar voice bellow "Longsword 2-4, Fox 2!". As she did, the F-15 increased its speed and flew under them, allowing Prince and Marshall a few seconds as the Mirage defended against the missile.

"Visual, second Mirage, coming at you, 2-4." Marshall said.

"Roger, we see it." Moose replied.

The 2000 chasing Matt and Henry had been forced to give up the chase, and almost in unison they spotted two more familiar shapes.

"Longsword, the cavalry's here, bug out towards your home, we got these guys." Another voice piped up.

Matt transitioned from a loop to a barrel roll to level out, the BAF fighter going the opposite direction as he (and soon his wingman) dealt with the incoming OAF fighters.

"Don't let him get away, 1-3! Don't let him get away!" his wingman shouted as the two chased after the Belkan. Meanwhile Matt dropped the Strike Eagle to 10,000 feet and adjusted the power into a smooth cruise so his wing woman could catch up. He took a breath for what felt like the first time since he'd called out he was rolling in hot. But he felt no fear…he only felt a stark realization of mortality.

**A/N: Sorry that took so long guys, school's been nuts X~X  
Anyways not much to say except the title is he result of playing too much Sega Strike Fighter and I kept the part with the Mirages short because I couldn't get a proper idea of an F-15E vs a Mirage 2000C outside of speculation and obvious advantages the latter would have over the former (A Mirage being more of a fighter but still having those deltas, which are more optimized for high-speed and not maneuverability)**


	5. Chp 5: Percautionary Measures

_Chp. 5: Precautionary Measures_

_March 25, 1995_

_Foley AFB, Southeast Osea_

"Longsword 2-3, Foley Tower, you're clear for landing on runway 2-A."

Matt snapped his aircraft, weapon systems now restricted from use to the left and began to circle around to approach the base. As had been foreshadowed over the radio in the immediate aftermath of the bridge attack, the Belkans had made a stab at Foley, but in all the chaos none of the eight Strike Eagle crewmembers had been fully informed. The same went for their fellow pilots who'd gone up. It was still dark outside, but his NVGs revealed several fires and smoke trails, both from the fires and the Patriot batteries.

The approach lights quietly shone as he lowered his F-15 towards the ground, deploying the wheels and adjusting the flaps with natural movements. Matt minded his speed and looked forward as his altitude dropped. The wheels touched the concrete with a screech and Matt pulled back the throttle even more. The speed brake went up to its maximum angle and Matt brought the jet from its fast roll to a smooth amble.

"Longsword 2, Colonel Mackey has ordered that you all report in for your next assignment and SITREP."

Matt wasn't fazed by the news. His blood was still pumping at top speed, and not an ounce of fatigue was recognizable. They swung off the runway and taxied onto the tarmac, where their crew was waiting to ready the machine for another flight. Matt pried off his oxygen mask and tilted up the night vision goggles as the canopy went up and a fresh blast of March air. Justin was up with them in a matter of seconds.

"Welcome back, Sir…Sir." He said to them both rather mechanically.

"How hard did we get hit?" Marshall asked as soon as the Pratt and Whitney's had calmed down. His pilot's face asked the same.

"They came in about ten or so minutes after you guys launched, whisked me and a bunch of other guys to air raid shelters. From what I heard it was a bunch of fast movers. I'm guessing you both saw they got one runway and a few of the base's big facilities, hell even the Wing Commander's place. We managed to protect some of the really important stuff though." The Crew Chief explained as quickly as he could.

"Guess one of those things was the ammo dump." Prince commented as he looked out in its general direction.

The two pilots dismounted and were quickly approached by several members of the maintainers. They started offering congratulations and thanks for getting back in one piece. Matt smiled and returned the handshakes and thanks, grateful that the crew had done its job well.

They crossed in front of several other returned F-15s, two with some apparent damage, and found the rest of Longsword 2 gathered so they could all go in at once. The Major acknowledged the salutes of Matt and Henry and led the others inside. His pace told the other pilots of his flight he wasn't happy about Captain Jerry Stevens's miss (and that Henry and Andre would be wise to keep using direct mode for their GBUs to themselves). At least the Major wasn't trying to play down he'd missed…

"Lieutenant Alexitov." He finally said. The woman straightened up in her pace a bit.

"Yes Sir?" she replied quickly.

"Did you managed to bag that Mirage?" he asked, looking at her for a brief moment.

"No sir, I drew it off Lieutenant Hall, but the escorting F-15s eventually took It." she reported. The woman locked eyes with her friend and silently mouthed "You owe me booze, Prince" At him when their superior wasn't looking. McDale scratchedhis head, grunted in indifference at the result, and lead them into the 245th's briefing room. Lieutenant Colonel Mackey was inside with the rest of the squadron.

"Longsword 2 reporting!" his XO said with a salute. Mackey returned it and smiled.

"Damn fine job on the bridge, Chip." He said. The man looked at the others.

"Same goes to you all. Take a seat." He told them. Despite the situation, it was good to see the CO was trying to keep a "glass- half-full" attitude. Matt thumped very quietly against his seat and stared at the projector as things darkened.

"If you haven't noted by now, we're at war with the Belkans. We've been getting trickles of several battles all along the border, especially up north in the plains. For the moment we're still running on things as they change, and the intel and planning folks are trying to get us a proper picture to carry out things properly. For now, the majority of details will be provided in the air by AWACS and other assets. We're also being promised better protection so we have a base to come back to, which includes stricter security. For the moment, no one leaves or enters the base without proper clearance, and the O'Club is under restriction."

He was replied to by a round of half-hearted boos. The man held up his hands understandingly and calmed the group.

"Now, now, everyone, we can't have tanked pilots flying sorties, you all know that. When we get things under control, we'll see eased restrictions. Anyways, onto business for today." He said in a commanding officer's tone.

"Despite our efforts, the Belkans aren't stopping their advance. They've sent forward their divisions up north, and are making steady progress. Down here, they're poised to seize major cities around the Great Lakes region, and the city of Wesson reports its power station has been knocked out, and its airport disabled, along with the two Air National Guard squadrons they had there. The other two squadrons have been heavily hit as well. This means Wesson is weak, and vulnerable to an attack by that airmobile division in the area. We've also gotten word that the Belkans may further reinforce with paratroopers,Fallschirmjägers, since our strikes against the bridges have slowed any advances by ground-based forces.

We're fragging two flights to assist in attacking the invading forces themselves this time. One will attack the forward elements of the force aimed at Wesson, the other will head north to the plains, and the third will be divided between assisting the CAP we're getting from O'Leary and being spares. The Belkans still have plenty of aircraft up, and these ground units have mobile AA defenses, SA-6s, SA-13s, and SA-16s as well as ZSUs. In short, a whole bunch to lob at us. You're flight assignments are on the board, so report to your flight-level briefings immediately." He explained in unison with several maps that'd been marked to show the advance of enemy forces.

Matt and Henry had been assigned to fly as a part of a flight led by Captain Jake Forger, or Cobra, against the force poised at Wesson. The terrain would be mountains and valleys, as well as the dominating bodies of water. They would be working with Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornets (who would be hunting air defenses for the most part) and A-10 Thunderbolts to bust tanks. As the crew approached their mount, Matt saw ground crew were attaching four GBU-12s, four CBU-89s which he surmised were probably loaded with mines, and two drop tanks for the wings. His four AIM-9s and LANTIRN remained in place. He also noted a single bomb silhouette painted near his jet's art, a symbol of his first combat sortie.

Valentina and Johnny were parked on either side of him, completing the four-ship of "Longsword 2"

"So, who's flying with who?" Matt spoke up. Valentina jerked her head towards Cobra's Eagle.

"I'm flying as Longsword 2-2." She answered.

"Yeesh, I'm not really getting to use my standard call sign, am I?" Matt commented.

"We." Henry interjected.

"Sorry there, Goose." Prince apologized.

"It's all good, Maverick."

As they mulled over a few last-minute details, a low screech became apparent in their ears. In the low lights, Matt saw a shape trailing smoke as it came towards the usable runway (the other was under repair).

"What's that?" He asked. Henry looked back from his kneeboards at the damaged machine that was landing.

"Mirage F.1, must be an Ustian bird. I heard the Colonel mentioning we would be receiving them and passing them on further inland to international airports." His friend said.

"You'd think he would've tried somewhere closer like Sapin." Valentina remarked, noting the damage.

"Cut the guy some slack, his country's getting fucked over." Matt reminded her. She looked up at him.

"Let's hope the Belkans cut us all some slack." She said before walking off. The woman turned around and leveled a finger at him.

"Restrictions or no, you still owe me!" she called.

"Of course, Valentina!" Her friend promised. Matt looked at Johnny.

"Okay man, this is it, I'm counting on you." He said to the thinner man.

"You worry too much, Prince, I've got yah." Ratpack assured with a wink. Matt wasn't satisfied with that. He grabbed the man by his harness and yanked him close. Their WSOs exchanged hesitant glances, unsure if they should intervene.

"Ratpack, I'm fucking serious, you hotdog anything and I will kick your ass six ways from Sunday." Matt growled. Johnny gulped, then sobered up his expression.

"You can count on me…" he assured quietly. Before Matt let him go, he slipped out something else.

"…besides, I'm too scared to piss around."

Matt nodded in understanding…

Wesson had been plunged into deep darkness by the power station raid. The only things visible were airport lights and the flashes of police cars as they worked to control the fear and chaos that had to be brewing below. Above, the roar of fighter jets had to be even more unnerving, but every effort had been poured into making sure the Army National Guard troops below didn't start shooting at the wrong guys.

The idea of missions in such short intervals was a one that only existed in the possibility of an emergency. Normally, Matt would've been given a little time to rest up and fully prepare, but the invasion had scratched that away. However, Cobra had disclosed that Osea was fully aware of the attack now, and ready to throw around some weight. Hopefully the 245th would be allowed a quick enough breather. Matt turned his attention back to the six-ship of F/A-18s clearing away some of the defenses for the strikers, which orbited above Wesson in wait. It appeared the mountains were making it hard, and one of the dual-role machines had slammed into the ground.

"Gatekeeper, this is Archimedes Lead, we've done what we can, we're bingo fuel and returning to base." The lead Hornet spoke up.

"Roger that Archimedes. Wolf 3, Longsword 2, and Bishop Flight, press northeast into Belkan airspace and engage enemy ground forces. We'll frag more SEAD to you if we can." A new controller spoke up. Some Ravens would be nice too, Matt thought.

"Longsword 2 Lead copies all."

"Wolf 3 Lead copies all."

"Bishop Lead copies all."

Matt eased his F-15E to heading 045 and up 1000 feet to an altitude of 13,000, out of the range of SA-13s, ZSUs, and portable SAMs like the Stinger. The SA-6s would be the only ground-based threat he still had to worry about up here. He looked around and oriented the other two flights: a four-ship of F/A-18D Hornets from VMFA(AW)-139 "Checkmates" and a six-ship of A-10A Thunderbolt IIs of the 99th TFS, the Rampaging Roughnecks.

A-10 pilots…if there were a group of people whose ego was disproportional to their capabilities, it was them. They walked around, pretending their subsonic machines were the best thing since sliced bread and they were beautiful because they were ugly and mean. Guys who flew F-15Cs and F-16s Matt could tolerate because they handled dogfighting, but A-10 pilots had their 30mm gun and armor to brag about…and not much else. They couldn't fight against enemy aircraft outside of helos, they couldn't go in the weather most other jets scoffed at, and they couldn't go deep into enemy territory like Matt's Strike Eagle.

"Wolf 3-3 here, you pointy noses get to see why we're so good. Hope you can slow down enough to hit things." One of the Thunderbolt pilots spoke up.

"Yeah, roger that Wolf 3-3, I'll remind you of that remark when you've got a MiG coming at you. Hope you can keep up." He replied.

Matt got back to business and selected the four Paveways hung from the forward CFT stations while Henry made sure the FLIR and laser were properly working. Ahead the terrain began to spike up before the border. Matt looked at his map on his knee and located the border. They were right on top of it at this rate.

"Welcome to Belka, everyone." Ratpack said, trying to lighten the mood just a little.

"Get your passports out." Matt quipped. He waited for Henry to spot targets

"Okay Longsword 2, we'll go in first and sweep out any SA-13s or ZSUs from high up so Wolf 3 can come in low, how copy?" the senior man, a Marine Major in one of the Hornets, spoke up.

"Roger that Bishop Lead. 2-2 follow me, 2-3 and 2-4 you're clear to break and engage at will." Cobra said.

"Understood, Bishop, we'll hang back until things clear up." The lead Warthog pilot promised.

"Roger that 2-1. Okay 2-4, follow me Compadre!" Matt howled.

Matt took the F-15 into a sharp bank to the right and stared down into the valley as he swung left and leveled out. The walls seemed far away at this altitude and setting, and the depression itself felt wide. He looked up and saw a pair of Hornets in "loose deuce" formation gliding down. A burst of light went off under the right one.

"Bengal 05, Rifle!"

His wingman called the same and sent another AGM towards the ground. Matt strained to see what they might've fired at, but at this altitude he only saw tracers from the enemy on the ground. Photos had shown they were in large camps, with AA sites and forward elements closest to the front. In all honesty it felt like they were trying to topple a castle with pebbles.

"Can anyone get eyes on any FARPs? Can't let those Hinds get airborne with weapons." Johnny asked.

"Negative Ratpack, I don't see any yet." Valentina replied.

A layer of clouds approached, forcing Matt and Johnny to lower down a little. The ECM chirped as expected, and Matt waited for his back-seater to say something.

"Heads up, we're spiked. Looks like a Gainful." Henry piped up.

"Roger that, tell me if you see anything." Matt said as he swiveled his gaze to the right. Two flashes went off as the Mavericks from the F/A-18s impacted. The ECM changed as an SA-6 sight got a clearer and clearer picture of them.

"Longsword 2-4, you're cleared to break off." Matt instructed as he punched away chaff and his tanks.

"Roger that, Prince." Johnny said as he left Matt's wing.

"Longsword 2-3 here. I'm being spiked by a Gainful; anybody got a visual on a site?" He called as he banked left and craned his neck.

"Roger that 2-3, I've got a site that's definitely tracking someone. Okay, he just fired two SAMs." Cobra spoke up. Matt waited for Henry to spot launches or the ECM to go crazy on him, but nothing happened. Instead, he heard two of the Marine pilots get antsy, especially because they weren't getting any real ECM warnings. Matt saw none of the duel, but heard the result.

"Bishop 04 and 10 are down! Two birds down!" Bishop Lead called.

"Visual, two SAMs climbing at us from nine o' clock." Henry machine-gunned out in immediate subsequence.

Matt punched off more chaff and turned into the missiles. The ECM dropped off almost immediately when he passed the missiles, prompting him to call to his WSO again. It'd been too quick.

"They're trying to turn back towards us. They must've gone to optical guidance." Henry surmised. That was the SA-6's nastiest trick, but it'd been poorly employed this time. Tsk, tsk, Belka. As the SAMs flew away without a care, Matt decided payback was in order.

"Okay, we'll get that site that fired on us and got Bishops 04 and 10 with a pair of CBUs, then try and find one of the FARPs." The pilot instructed.

"Maybe we should leave the SAMs to the other Bugs." His WSO protested.

"We came here to fry Belkans, man. We're gonna do that." Matt responded firmly.

That whole realization of mortality had turned into a want for battle. It made him realize the only way out was to smash the invasion-happy bastards bellow, and smash 'em hard. Despite more protests from Henry, the pilot came to the right and selected the two CBUs that had regular bomblets (the crew had informed he had two full of mines and two regulars) hung from the lower-rear CFT stations. He dove towards the general area the missiles had come from and asked Henry for a better picture with the FLIR, switching one of his displays to the feed. On the screen he saw a triad of missile launchers, support trucks and their radar vehicle almost directly below. The "lollipop" bombing sight appeared on his HUD and Matt eased back on the throttle. As he screamed downwards under the G-forces, he punched the release button to send one of the weapons on its way. Matt the slammed back the stick and left the dive as quickly as his still-heavy F-15 could, leveling out at 3000 feet.

As he soared back up to altitude, the two CBU burst open and spread dozens of tiny explosives across the site. Henry looked back at the site as they escaped the fire of a nearby Shilka, and was satisfied to see Matt's dive-bomb attack hadn't been in total vain.

"Good hits…good hits on the SAM site. Prince, you are one crazy sonuvabitch." He reported.

"That's why I do this." The front-seater laughed.

Matt circled back around and requested Henry to find another target. The man pointed out what looked like a platoon or two to four of M113s for him, and Mat selected the other CBU. Henry directed him a fair distance away to make a marginally less G-intensive dive from the side of the APCs, keeping an ear to the radio waves for their CAP to spot any threats.

"Longsword 2-4, where are you? We've spotted about a dozen APCs in entrenched position and are requesting your help." Henry asked.

"2-4, here, we just greased some Zeuses, standby." Johnny said. Much to Matt's quiet satisfaction, the man really had his head on his shoulders.

The pilot of Longsword 2-3 pickled off his other CBU on the Panzergrenadiers, watching as men in the open fired their assault rifles or the machine guns mounted atop the Osean-built machines. From 5000 feet though, they were just pretty flashes. Henry whipped his head around as Johnny came in right behind him.

Matt checked the fuel gauge and saw he was still well off, but not for long. He beseeched the others for the location of any FARPs once again.

"This is Wolf Lead, I've spotted one, big sucker too, but it's got some Gophers around it. Knock those out and we'll tear the place a new one." One of the A-10 pilots called.

"Roger that, Longsword will target hostile SAM sites so Wolf 3 can attack at low level." Cobra said almost immediately.

The four-ship regrouped at 14,000 feet near one of the mountains and coordinated things. Under Captain Forger, they would execute attacks with their GBUs from high altitude, out of range of the SAMs, and then provide overwatch as the A-10s made bomb and gun runs. Cobra and Baroness went first under the watch of Prince and Ratpack, dropping two Paveways each. The other two Strike Eagles took their turn, and the A-10s came swooping in without pause. Matt and Johnny went into a gradual left turn as the slower machines unleashed guns and bomb upon the Mi-35s below. As they cleared though, Matt noted a third jet easing down, and he could recognize the shape of a MiG-29 Fulcrum. He'd been so wrapped up in ground-pounding, he'd forgotten about minding the CAP's activities.

Strangely, the MiG was completely ignorant of him and fixated on the A-10s as they now tried to flee, spitting 30mm from its single cannon. He saw impacts on one of the Thunderbolts as it shuddered and made a turn to the left, the other going right. The Belkan fighter turned after the hurt one and moved to reposition itself. In the meanwhile Longsword 2-3 completed his turn and got his nose aimed at the Fulcrum. In his HUD, a symbol much like his gun's pipper tried to line up with the Target Display Box surrounding the Fulcrum. The enemy jet caught wind of him and broke away from the badly wounded Thunderbolt. Matt stayed in a lag pursuit position and waited. His mind was so engrossed on the Fulcrum, he was almost failing to note it was turning towards the mountains. It didn't matter, though, he'd get the guy before anything else. The second they met he pushed the button.

"Longsword 2-3, Fox 2!"

One of the Sidewinders to his left zipped off its rail and went towards the MiG. However, the Fulcrum's change in direction became apparent as he let off flares and barrel-rolled over the top of the peaks. Matt yanked back the stick to avoid the terrain, moving so quickly the F-15E almost touched the dirt below as it accelerated upwards and rolled over to reacquire the enemy fighter. Matt saw him and quickly dove at him, trying for another shot. The MiG deployed more flares and went back over the mountains. This time when Matt followed the MiG, he found the enemy aircraft was in a zoom-climb, escaping his would-be pursuer. Matt was charged though. He would get that MiG if he had to ram him.

The pilot dumped everything but his AIM-9s and LANTIRN, disregarded his fleeting fuel, and went into afterburner after the Fulcrum. He screamed upwards and waited for another lock. When the Fulcrum deployed flares he waited and fired twice this time.

"Longsword 2-3, Fox, Fox 2!" Matt barked.

The two missiles arced up after the Fulcrum as it countered the weapons. Matt decided that while his opponent was distracted he would bug out. The enemy jet could easily lure him into a turning fight, where it would easily chew him up. Henry strained to track the weapons as they ran away. He bit his lip and waited as the Fulcrum deployed more flares, hoping the M-model weapon wouldn't be fooled. The first shamelessly gave up the chase, but the other kept on. Henry's mouth dropped open as he saw it explode over the rear half of the MiG.

"Good kill, good kill!" He shouted. Matt whipped around.

"We got him?!" He asked.

"Damn straight! Splash one Fulcrum! Now get us the hell outta here!" the WSO exclaimed.

Matt didn't have to be told twice. He ordered Johnny to his side and set his throttles back to a lower setting to go southwest. The other jets began to do the same, running low on ordnance and fuel. The radio crackled as the two F-15Es cleared the immediate area.

"Wolf 3-3 here…thanks…and congrats…" the A-10 pilot admitted. Matt accepted his admonishment as a good little bonus, and a sign that maybe A-10 drivers weren't as prideful as he'd thought…

_**A/N: So this chapter turned out to be a bit of a tricky one, since the battle was rather large-scale, and the decision for what to do at the end came rather last-minute. The little bit about the A-10 came from reading Jim Deflice's "Hogs" series, which has to be some of the worst fiction I've ever read (though some of his other stuff is a little better) mostly due to the fact he slobbers all over the feet of the A-10 and makes it seem like some kind of god-tier jet (the characters weren't very impressive either). Plus, everyone seems to hold the A-10 so highly so I thought I'd change things up. If any of you have some pointers on how to make mud-moving more exciting, I'd be happy to hear em.**_


End file.
